Built by Strings
by Candid-Canoe
Summary: The only comfort Logan gets is from cold lines and numbers. Until he meets Kendall.


**Author's note: **Okay, so, on tumblr we have to share the kogan tag with a violinist and an architect who have the misfortune to share the name of a boy band ship. This is my nod to them. Ha. This is AU obviously.

**Warnings: **Age gap, smut, minor character death, angst

* * *

There's a good breeze going, whipping up leaves and hissing through the trees. Logan closes his eyes, trying to take joy from the caress of wind on his cheeks, the warm sun on his face. His therapist says he should stop beating up on himself; he should start having fun again. So Logan is sitting in the park, attempting to start small by enjoying the lovely spring day.

The winter had been long and cold, and although the L.A. days were temperate, the nights had been unbearably chilly, nothing but straight lines and perfect angles to keep Logan company.

With his eyes closed, Logan finds he hears things he normally wouldn't: birds chattering, murmured conversations, children playing. Sounding far away, Logan picks up the slightest lilt of strings on the wind, maybe a cheerful violin. It's not uncommon to find different street performers in this town, and Logan almost resents the sound interrupting his halcyon moment.

He's trying so fucking hard to enjoy himself.

The playing only intensifies, and Logan slits open his eyes, turning in the direction of the sound. The violinist seems to be travelling. Logan can just make out the blur of a person a few hundred feet away, the flick of a wrist and the bend of an elbow. He closes his eyes again, slouches on the park bench until he can rest his head on the back and tries to tune out the sound. The happy timbre is too much for Logan at the moment, not when his nerves are exposed and raw.

But Logan finds the hum of the strings grows in volume the harder he tries to not listen. Behind his sunglasses, his eyes are closed tightly, absolutely refusing to acknowledge the wandering minstrel. The music gets so loud Logan is convinced the player stands right in front of him. He lets out an exasperated sigh, and the music stops.

"Does this bother you?" a voice asks, a tiny pluck of a string sounding out.

Logan's head snaps up at the words and he opens his eyes, searching for the speaker. There's a young guy right in front of him, wild, dark-blond hair askew, gangly arms and legs. He stands with a casual assuredness, despite the fact it looks like he's only recently grown out of an awkward adolescence. He's smiling, but Logan doesn't return it.

"Are you talking to me?" Logan asks, even though there isn't anyone else in close proximity. The guy snorts and plops down next to Logan on the bench. The movement pushes the guy's scent on a movement of air, all patchouli and something else, and Logan grows immediately uneasy. He's never been one of those people who are comfortable with physical closeness when it comes to strangers. He tries to discreetly scoot away.

"Well, yeah," the guy answers, pulling a violin case, which had been slung across his back, over his head and putting away his instrument. "I wasn't expecting an answer from the birds. Although, they are pretty talkative today." He's wearing sunglasses, and he turns to look Logan in the face, inching the glasses down his nose so he can peer at Logan over the top.

"Um…"

"So? Does my playing bother you?" The question is inane at this point, the violin put away snugly.

"Uh, no, it's fine," Logan answers, wondering how he can excuse himself without being rude. Logan is horrible at casual conversation, and of course, he can't speak his mind. He's trying to relax, damn it, not interact with hobos or whatever this guy is.

The guy laughs. "You don't have to lie."

"I wasn't, uh—"

"You're pretty uptight, huh?" The guy's crazy brows pull together, his brightly colored eyes boring into Logan, flitting across his face as though Logan's story were written there. It only causes Logan to fidget more.

"Hey, that's not a fair assumption. You don't know me," Logan protests, his ire beginning to outweigh the anxiety.

"What do you do?"

"What do I do?" Logan stutters.

"I don't know, man. That's why I asked."

"Are you messing with me? Is this what you do for fun?" Logan accuses, beginning to stand.

"Dude, chill." The guy pulls a pack of cigarettes from the large front pocket of his hoodie, puckering his lips and pushing a smoke between his pout. He lights up and takes a drag before continuing. Logan tries not to make a noise of disgust, although he wonders why he cares. "And it kind of is what I do for fun. How else do you meet cool people?"

"So what do _you _do?" Logan asks, cocking his head to the side in what he imagines is a mocking manner.

"I'm a musician," the guy returns.

Now, Logan snorts. "Figures."

"And I wash dishes. Playing the park doesn't exactly pay rent." The guy takes another drag, examines Logan up and down where he stands as he slowly exhales the smoke through his nose. "You look like an accountant."

"I'm an architect, thank you very much," Logan answers, deciding he really doesn't like this guy. He's too sure of himself, too comfortable, too much of what Logan isn't. Just _too. _Logan knows the guy must be making fun of him on the inside. "Look, um—"

"Kendall," the guy offers.

"Look, Kendall. I have to go. Bye," Logan unceremoniously replies, turning to leave. He makes it several steps before Kendall stops him with a question.

"What's your name?" Kendall asks.

Logan thinks maybe he should give a fake name, maybe just keep walking, but for some reason he looks over his shoulder, meets those strange bright eyes and answers, "Logan."

He shakes his head at himself all the way back home.

~oOo~

Logan goes back to the park the following Monday, during his hour long lunch break. It's one of those days where he's so hollow inside he feels the breeze echo inside him. He has to remind himself to eat on these days, so he's absentmindedly chewing on a granola bar, wondering what he's hoping to find.

It's only when he hears the stirring of strings and begins walking towards it he realizes he's curious about Kendall. Not that he's going to analyze why, even though analysis is something that comes to him as easily as breathing.

Logan finds Kendall, sitting cross-legged in the shade of a tree, grinning as he watches his fingers fly across the violin. Removing his sunglasses, Logan tries to feign disinterest, but in actuality, he's fucking impressed with how easily Kendall's hands play the small strings. When Kendall notices Logan, he frowns and immediately changes the happy tune to slow and mournful.

The notes are sorrowful and desolate, and the sound makes the aching emptiness in Logan heavy as lead, weighing down his arms, his legs, his whole body. The day turns dark despite the slanted sunshine through the tree, and Logan wonders if this guy, if Kendall, has experienced a loss as profound as Logan's somehow. He wonders how Kendall could play something like this if he hasn't. "Stop," Logan whispers, the word quiet yet Kendall hears and complies.

"That bothers you too?" Kendall asks, a not-quite-smile on his face, a sad smile, an all-too-knowing smile. "So you don't like happy music and you don't like sad music. That just leaves angry music. Do you like angry music? You don't seem the type, Logan."

The sound of his name from Kendall's mouth is strange, almost as strange as the fact he's decided to remember it. But then again, Logan remembers Kendall.

"I don't really like music at all," Logan answers. The shock on Kendall's face is almost enough to make Logan smile, but he can't, not with the cloud of sad sounds still hanging in the air.

"Everybody likes music." Kendall scrapes up a few wadded bills and some coins out of his open violin case and safely tucks away the instrument. Standing, he brushes the grass from his worn out jeans before moving in close to Logan, scrutinizing him again.

"I'm not everybody," Logan answers, taking a step back. "I, uh, used to. Back before…"

"Before?" Kendall urges, stepping forward and closing the feet between them. Logan huffs and looks at his feet.

Logan shouldn't feel obligated to continue, and he doesn't, not really, but he answers anyway. "My wife. She…well, she left." He brings his left hand up and rubs the back of his neck, nervously running fingers through his hair. This isn't something he talks about. In fact, he pays top dollar to avoid talking about it in a therapist's office, once a week, an hour at a time.

Yet Logan is talking to a stranger in the park for free.

"Wow, that sucks," Kendall replies simply, grabbing Logan's wrist and inspecting the circle of gold around his ring finger. "Why do you still wear this, then?" Logan shakes off Kendall's hold, feeling small and vulnerable under Kendall's shadow.

"I'm just not ready to take it off." Logan's cheeks color, a tiny rush of heat to his face and ears, and he's unsure if it's from embarrassment or physical contact. He's feeling defensive and achy, but he has the urge to unload. Too bad he doesn't know how to do that, has never known how to do that.

Kendall picks up on it. "Do you want to go get a drink? I'm buying. I think I've got about forty bucks in quarters."

Staring at Kendall with mouth agape, Logan has trouble formulating an answer. This kid has to be at least ten years younger than him, if not more. What could they possibly talk about? It doesn't stop the want to say yes though, the same curious pull that brought him back to the park bolstering him to reply positively. All Logan can do is ask, "Are you even old enough to drink?"

Kendall laughs, open-mouthed and loud, deep dimples hollowing on each cheek. "I've been twenty-one more than a _whole _year. That makes me twenty-two. Not that I would let being underage stop me if I were."

"I should really get back to work," Logan replies.

"Just call and tell them you ate some bad sushi or something." Kendall moves even closer to Logan and starts patting him down. Logan jumps when Kendall unapologetically reaches into his pocket and pulls out his cell phone. Trying to grab it from Kendall, the blond only holds it out of reach, his neck craned as he searches through Logan's contacts.

"Hey!" Logan shouts, imagining how undignified it must look for a thirty-three year old professional to be leaping in the air, trying to wrestle his phone from some guy a whole head taller than him. "What are you doing?"

"There ya go," Kendall says, handing the phone back to Logan. Logan looks from it to Kendall with a quirked eyebrow. "You'd better put it to your ear because it's calling."

"Shit," Logan hisses under his breath, pressing the phone to his face just as someone picks up.

Logan thinks Kendall's behavior should just be his cue to leave. He thinks Kendall must be a little crazy. He thinks the fact he's been manhandled should have him running in the opposite direction. Normally, Logan would be.

But he hasn't felt like normal Logan in a long time.

"Yeah," Logan says into the phone, "it's Logan. Listen, I'm not feeling so well…"

Still, he gives Kendall a scathing look through the whole conversation. Kendall's smile never falters.

~oOo~

"…and I had fun. Which, he acts his age but not. He's so bright and we talked about everything from politics to paint colors," Logan says. Instead of his normal rigid position on the therapist's couch, Logan is lying on his back, gesturing with his hands as he counts ceiling tiles, finding the rough area of the room by measuring with his eyes. It makes it easier to talk.

"Do you like him?" the therapist asks.

"Well, yeah. He's cool and funny and interesting—"

"I mean, do you _like _him?"

Logan stops counting and turns to look at the therapist. Surely, she's not implying what Logan thinks she's implying. "Excuse me?"

"Are you attracted to him?" the therapist rephrases.

"God, no." He takes pause to ponder the curve of Kendall's mouth, the strong set of his nose and jaw. Kendall's face is strong, like the buildings Logan designs, all sweeping lines and edges. "He's a guy, and he's eleven years younger than me – barely out of college. I'm not gay. You know that," Logan answers, sitting up and returning to his ramrod straight position that is the norm.

The therapist sighs, and Logan wonders again why he pays for this kind of thing. "You don't have to be gay to be attracted to him. Have you ever allowed yourself to entertain the idea of a relationship with another man?"

"No. Why would I?"

"If you haven't, then how do you know it's impossible?"

"I'm not comfortable with this line of questioning," Logan answers. "Let's talk about something else."

"Okay," the therapist starts, uncrossing her legs and leaning toward Logan. "Have you told him about Camille?"

Logan jumps, the mention of her name causing a burgeoning pain, and he wilts against the back of the sofa as though she were an injected poison. "Yes. Well, kind of. I don't really like talking about her."

"I know you don't, Logan, but it might help if you talked about her anyway."

Now, Logan is thinking of Camille. About the day he met her. He'd taken drama as an elective, and the class had been told to partner off. They were the only two left. When they ran lines, and the script called for a slap to the face, Camille hadn't even hesitated to let Logan have it. He smiles as he remembers, because he's pretty sure that's the moment he fell in love. She'd had this wild, curly hair framing her face, her lips cherry red against white, straight teeth. Her eyes always laughed, even when she was being completely serious. It's that sparkle in her eye Logan misses most, the same spark he saw when they first made love, when they recited vows of '_til death do us part._

Camille had never been a liar. She was an actress.

"I miss her still," Logan says, whispers, as though it is shameful to admit. He's bleeding, his heart in jagged shards trying to work their way out from the inside. Logan prefers the empty days.

"It's okay to miss her," the therapist says.

"I don't know if I'll ever be okay with it."

~oOo~

"I-I've never done anything like this before," Logan stutters, fingers fisted in Kendall's hair as the taller man unbuttons Logan's shirt, places open-mouthed kisses against each new patch of skin revealed.

Kendall drops to his knees, smirking as he undoes Logan's belt before mouthing at Logan's clothed erection, breath coming out hot and heavy. Logan is trembling and thinking this is probably the dumbest thing he's ever done. A moan passes between his lips, nonetheless. Kendall pauses to look up at Logan, rests his chin against Logan's hip.

"You've never messed around with a guy? Or is it that you've never gone for someone over a decade younger than you? Or is it that you've never messed around with someone you've only just met?" Kendall asks with laughing eyes and flushed cheeks.

"All three," Logan replies, arching his back from against the wall, begging Kendall with his body to continue in the direction the younger man was heading.

Logan isn't sure how he got here, Kendall's tiny one room apartment, his clothes hanging off him as every inch of skin he has screams to be touched. They'd only stopped by so Kendall could drop off his violin, and Kendall had only leaned over Logan as he'd inspected a photograph on the wall. Logan felt the heat of Kendall, his physical warmth seeping out, radiating like the sun.

Logan has been cold such a long time.

He'd _only _leaned back into Kendall's chest, Kendall only wrapping arms around Logan, strong and steady and sure. Only a hot tickle of breath across his neck, and Logan was done for.

"That's what I thought," Kendall says, turning his attention back to getting Logan out of his pants.

When they're both naked and needy and clawing at each other, when Logan is fucking into Kendall and panting and moaning, he tries not to think of the last time he did something like this, his last time with Camille. This is the opposite of Camille in every way, Kendall's body all sharp lines and perfect planes just like the blueprints he draws up at work, just like the perfect angles he loves. And the last time with Camille had been slow and loving whereas this is frenzied and frantic.

Kendall groans Logan's name, deep and wanting, two sets of hips angled and thrusting together in just the right way. "Be with me now," Kendall says, and his perceptiveness makes Logan whimper, a sound of pleading and desperation, because he wants to forget.

"Kiss me," Kendall says, fingertips digging into Logan's back, urging him closer. Logan looks into Kendall's eyes, the exact opposite of the dark ones Logan last gazed into, and presses his mouth against Kendall's.

Logan thinks it strange their first kiss should be when he's buried completely inside Kendall, when he's fucking into the other man looking to hide from any feeling that isn't lust. But it seems right despite the strangeness, like Kendall is breathing something new between Logan's parted lips, smoothing over jagged edges and making them a little less sharp.

"We should do this again sometime," Kendall says, once they've both come apart and back together, snuggled down into Kendall's too hot bedspread, sweat intermingling between their bodies as though they've melted together. His mouth speaks casually, but his fingers trace the contours of Logan's naked body in an intimate way, as though his hands are memorizing and measuring and remembering.

Logan ponders it a long time, too long. But what could it hurt? It's just sex, after all. It doesn't mean anything, Logan thinks, even as Kendall's searching fingers tilt Logan's chin, even as Kendall kisses him tenderly.

He ignores the way his heart speeds, because it's much too broken to be entertaining the idea of giving it away.

~oOo~

Logan takes his lunch in the park almost every single day. Kendall is there more often than not. He casually begins to play without Logan even realizing it, easing Logan into appreciating a space filled with sound. It's only when he's not with Kendall he misses the music.

So he pulls out some old CDs at home, turns the volume down low on his laptop and plays them, albeit quietly. It's something. It's growth.

Logan searches Kendall out at odd times too, usually in the middle of the night when he's suffocated by loneliness. Kendall is always welcoming, always ready with a breathy laugh and roving hands. It's the first time in Logan's life he's let the yearning of his body overrule his overactive mind. He doesn't think about how young Kendall is; he doesn't concentrate long on the fact Kendall is a man. He just takes the comfort offered, leaches out Kendall's heat and light and thaws himself a layer at a time.

Logan can't bring Kendall over to his house. He hasn't been able to make himself take down the pictures of Camille, her beautiful face grinning at him from the perfect moment on their first date, their wedding, their first Christmas as husband and wife. There's a ghost of a woman in his bed, his heart, and there's no room for Kendall too.

"You know, Logan," Kendall begins one day as they sit in the sun, "I know your favorite movie and book. I know that perfect ninety degree angles turn you on. I've had your dick in my ass more times than I can remember, but I don't know your last name or how you were as a kid."

Logan chokes after the comment, his cheeks immediately reddening. He looks around to see if they've been overheard, and when he realizes they haven't, he laughs.

"Hey, you have dimples," Kendall says, poking the deepening spot on Logan's cheek. "That's hot. Your _O _face is hot too, but those dimples are hotter."

"What, you've never noticed before?" Logan asks, playfully swatting away Kendall's hand.

"You don't smile so much, babe, and definitely not that big." Logan starts at the thoughtless endearment, something forgotten unfurling in his chest. "I'm going to make you do it more," Kendall finishes.

"Oh, really?" Logan challenges. "How do you plan on doing that?"

Kendall's grin turns sly, and he pounces Logan, pinning his wrists above his head and sliding his free hand up Logan's shirt, tickling across his ribs with fingertips. Then Logan is laughing, trying to squirm away and gasping for breath. It feels so good – Kendall's weight on him, raucous laughter bursting from him like an uncorked champagne bottle.

"S-stop," Logan gasps, wiggling his hips, and he almost misses the way Kendall's eyes darken, how his lips subtlety part. Kendall stops tickling and lightly brushes his fingers across Logan's nipple, biting his lower lip when the textured flesh hardens at his touch. Logan is holding completely still now, keenly aware of their hips matched, the tightening of his pants from a simple caress.

"It's Mitchell," Logan murmurs, prying his gaze from Kendall's inviting mouth only to look in his eyes. "And I'm originally from Texas. I was an awkward, weird kid who always had a thing for numbers."

Kendall rewards Logan with a smile, a roll of his hips. Logan gasps before closing his eyes and returning the grin. He finds it hard to breathe around Kendall sometimes, especially when there's fondness clear in the bright color of his eyes, fondness Logan is trying his best to ignore.

"Well, Logan Mitchell, the weird kid from Texas, you're awful cute when you smile."

~oOo~

"I'm feeling things I wish I wouldn't," Logan says, his back practically turned to the therapist, his words whispered to the wall.

"What are you feeling, Logan?" she asks.

Logan sighs, covering his face with his hands, hiding away. He can't hide from what's going on inside him though.

"I miss her. God, I miss her so much some days I forget there's anything outside my dark bedroom. I forget what it is to be happy, to laugh, to joke. I forget there's anything in the world other than this aching, hollow thing inside me," Logan says, his voice muffled from between his fingers. He takes a deep breath, returns to looking at the wall.

"Go on."

"But I'm not feeling like that all the time anymore. For months, that's all I've felt, just…agony. But now there are days…"

"Yes, Logan?" the therapist urges.

Logan opens his mouth but not a sound comes out. He's thinking about Kendall, gentle touches, rough touches, long looks and playful eyes. He fights off a dopey expression, quickly turning it to a grimace. "There are days I feel okay."

"Your friend Kendall?"

"He's more than a friend," Logan replies, shifting slightly and looking at the therapist over his shoulder, trying to stop the traitorous burning of his eyes.

"I know you've mentioned the two of you have been intimate…"

"Yes, and?"

"Is that what makes you feel better? There's no shame in that, if it is," she replies.

"No, no. I think I _wish _that's all it were. It's more though. I think it's more."

"And why isn't it okay to have feelings for Kendall?"

"Well…he's so young, just starting out really. We're at different places entirely. I'm at the age where I need to be settled down," Logan answers.

"Have you talked to Kendall about that?"

"What? No, of course not. It's not serious. He's just having fun," Logan responds, his knees beginning to nervously bounce as he's turned to face the therapist fully.

"What else?" she prods.

"I don't deserve to feel like this. I can't. It's not right."

"It's been over a year, Logan."

Logan isn't meeting her eyes anymore, instead analyzing the portraits on the wall, his fingers gripping his knees until it is nearly painful.

"Logan," she says. He still refuses to meet her stare, and he can't stop the guilt-ridden tears burning hot trails down his face. He can't look at her. He can't because Camille is swimming in his vision, doing simple things, daily things he misses: humming in the shower, rubbing her feet together when she can't sleep, drawing hearts in the fog of a window, skipping over cracks in a sidewalk. He's envisioning the last time he held her in his arms, when she was so weak she couldn't smile, but still, her eyes did what her lips couldn't.

"Look at me, please, Logan."

Finally, he does, squinting his eyes and blurring her out with the water he doesn't try to blink away.

"It's not your fault Camille died," she says.

Her only reply is silence.

~oOo~

"_C-Could you come over?" _Kendall says, sounding small and sad through the earpiece of the phone. Logan turns his alarm clock, noticing it's almost two in the morning. It doesn't matter. He's woken Kendall many nights before.

"Yeah, yeah, of course I can," Logan replies. "I'll be over in a half hour at most, okay?"

"_Okay," _comes the whispered reply. "_Thank you."_

"No problem." Logan hangs up, not bothering to change out of his pajamas and rushing out the door. Kendall didn't sound like himself at all.

As soon as Logan gets to Kendall's, the younger man yanks him inside, slamming the door. Logan barely recognizes this version of Kendall, eyes red and blotchy. Kendall always looks carelessly put together, but tonight he just looks careless, plain white t-shirt stretched out at the collar, flannel pajamas barely hanging on his hips. His hair is everywhere, as though he's been running fingers through it.

"Kendall, wha—"

Logan can't even finish his question before Kendall is kissing him, prying open his mouth and pressing in his tongue, ferociously nipping at Logan's lips. He tastes like salt and cigarettes, smells like cinnamon and cloves. Logan breathes it in, moves arms around Kendall's waist and holds him tight.

"Fuck me," Kendall pants against Logan's mouth. "Fuck me, _now_."

Taking Kendall's face in his hands, Logan grips Kendall's cheeks, tries to do what Kendall always does and read straight from his eyes what's going on, what he's feeling. Kendall is pleading, nodding almost imperceptibly as though he's answering for Logan, urging him to give what is needed. Kendall is telling Logan with a long glance that they don't need to talk about things right now, not when there's so much forgetting to do.

And here Logan has felt like he's the only beneficiary of this pseudo-relationship; he thought he was the one looking to feel something besides lonely and hopeless. Kendall isn't perfect and content with everything. Logan remembers the second time he heard Kendall play, those sorrowful notes that echoed in the chasm of his chest, and maybe there's not such an impassable lacuna there anymore.

Maybe there's nothing _pseudo _about their relationship at all.

So Logan pushes Kendall toward the bed, Kendall stripping them both with shaky desperation. There's quick preparation, the sound of skin on skin, a baying groan, muttered curses and whispered encouragements. Kendall is on hands and knees, back arched, meeting Logan's hips with each thrust. He's asking for it harder and faster and Logan is seeing yellow spots and aching for breath, but he gives Kendall everything he asks for. Kendall's head is turned, watching over his shoulder to see where they are joined, watching as Logan fucks him into some kind of euphoric safe haven.

Logan doesn't think he's ever wanted someone so badly in his life, even though he's already inside Kendall, feeling the other man's body clenching around him in the most intimate of places. He wants more of Kendall, all of him, so Logan leans forward, presses his chest flush to Kendall's back, bracing himself with one hand while the other encloses around the heavy heat of Kendall's cock.

Kendall groans in pleasure at the added contact, curling his back to press up against Logan. He finds Logan's hand braced on the bed, slots his fingers on top of Logan's and squeezes. Logan searches out Kendall's lips, stretching his neck to its limit to kiss Kendall's mouth, the need to be connected in any way devastating him.

"Would you flip over?" Logan asks, feeling like the request exposes him for the needy mess he is.

"Yes, _please_," Kendall breathes, lying flat on his stomach and rolling to his back, pulling Logan on top of him and wrapping his legs around the older man's waist. He urges Logan back inside with the upward thrust of his hips, his heels against the back of Logan's thighs.

Logan's back arches with each forward movement of his hips, pressing and pushing into Kendall as deeply as he can. The heel of his left hand rests against Kendall's jaw, his fingers reaching out to Kendall's cheek, his lips. Kendall is breathing hard, eyes closed, each quick exhalation hot on Logan's splayed fingers. The younger man's tongue sneaks past his lips, licking across the tip of Logan's index finger before he closes his lips around it. Logan curses under his breath, the tempo of his hips speeding.

The streetlight from between the blinds gleams across the wedding band on Logan's ring finger, the same second it lights up Kendall's eyes - green, gold, green, gold – and Logan hides his face against Kendall's shoulder, mouths and nips at every spare patch of flesh he can find. Kendall squeezes Logan's hips with his thighs, Logan's overactive brain trying to reconcile two emotions in his heart. His bites down around Kendall's collarbone, probably harder than he should, but Kendall doesn't seem to mind.

Kendall's hands seem to be everywhere, fingertips gripping Logan's ass, travelling up his spine, tenderly getting tangled in his hair. It's almost too much, because Kendall is doing that thing he sometimes does, that thing where the path of his fingers feels more intimate than everything else, even more intimate than Logan sheathed inside Kendall's body.

And that burning lust in Logan's stomach shifts to something more, seems to travel to his chest, his throat, his eyes, and without warning, he's not fucking Kendall anymore. They're not so frenzied and Kendall guides Logan to him, opens his mouth against Logan's, breathing out as Logan breathes in.

Logan can't stop this _stupid _pathetic sound that slips past his mouth, but Kendall swallows it down, whispering, "_Hey, hey, it's okay," _and Logan feels like shit for making this about him. So he says it right back to Kendall, slipping a hand between their bodies to help Kendall along.

When Logan comes, he doesn't even have to think about it when he groans out Kendall's name.

"Stay," Kendall says. Logan never stays, but tonight, he doesn't think he can bring himself to leave.

"Okay."

~oOo~

They wake up hours later, still needing more of each other, so they make love as morning sunshine peeks through the blinds. It's easy to piece together again, push and pull, give and take, and when they've finished, they lie pressed together, Logan sprawled across Kendall's torso.

"My dad died," Kendall says.

Logan's head snaps up so he can look at Kendall, who resolutely keeps his eyes trained on the ceiling.

"What? When?"

"Last night. I," Kendall pauses, swallows and closes his eyes, "I have to go home to Minnesota today, soon. He's, uh, been sick a long time. I can't believe I've been in L.A. thinking of myself while he… He wanted me to…" Kendall chokes on the words, his hands covering his face.

"God, Ken…" Logan can't think of what to say, knowing no matter what he says nothing can make it better. So instead he embraces Kendall, peppers kisses through his hair. When Kendall's shoulders start to shake, Logan only holds him tighter. The whole situation hits dangerously close to home.

It takes awhile for Kendall to calm down, but when he does, he starts talking in a whisper. "Logan, I know you think we're just fooling around, and I know you think I'm too young for you, and I know there are some things you're not telling me. I know all that, okay? But, I just want you to know, no matter what this started out as, it's more for me now. I just…I need you. I think about you when you're not around. I think about how much I want to fix you, and I feel goddamn powerless because it's almost like you don't want to be fixed. I know you think I'm just a dumb kid—"

"I don't think you're dumb—"

"—but I really want you to reconsider me. Because sometimes I really think I might love you, and maybe that's the dumbest thing ever, but I want you to go with me. I _need _you to go with me."

The tiny pieces of Logan's heart throb and unsettle and he doesn't even know how to begin formulating a response. All he can say is, "Kendall, I, uh, don't know if this is a good time for this kind of talk."

"There's never a good time for you though," Kendall replies, moving away from Logan, getting out of bed and finding some clothes.

"Wait, Kendall, I—"

"Just…forget I said anything," Kendall interrupts, struggling to pull his shirt over his head.

"Ken, your dad just died, and you don't know what you're saying because you're hurting—"

Kendall's face turns hard, angry, eyes slanting. "Don't tell me what I'm feeling."

Logan swallows, Kendall's ire striking him like a hot iron. "You're so young, Kendall, and I'm—"

"And how old were you when you met your ex-wife?" Kendall asks.

It's a shock to Logan's system, the word "ex" referring to Camille. He's never thought of her as anything but his wife, and the fact she's dead doesn't make any difference. The achy pang of loss twinges inside Logan, but he answers, "Nineteen."

"And how old were you when you knew you loved her?"

"Nineteen," Logan answers.

Kendall throws both hands in the air, lets them fall and slap against his legs. "Maybe I am too young and naïve then. I see how well falling in love at a young age turned out for you."

Logan's own anger flares at the comment, and he's not thinking about how Kendall is suffering right now, because it wasn't Logan's fucking decision to lose his wife. It wasn't his fucking idea that Camille should be stolen from him. "My _wife _died, okay? Is that what you wanted to know?"

Logan realizes he's still sitting in Kendall's bed, naked and vulnerable, his heart's pieces splayed out for Kendall to pick through. He stands and finds his own clothes, watching Kendall from the corner of his eye, stock-still and mouth agape. Logan can't look him in the face, can't stand the thought of it. He might lose himself completely.

When he gets to the door, he pauses, glancing over his shoulder to see Kendall sitting on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands. Logan crumbles more, the pieces of himself turning to ash.

"I'm sorry about your dad," he says, and he walks away quickly, because it's just _too much_.

~oOo~

When Logan gets home, he slams the door to his empty house, wishing that he hadn't designed the damn thing so well and it would fall apart. He wants to rip the place down piece by piece, destroy the echoing remembrance of Camille's laugh still lingering in the corners.

He wants to forget. He wants to remember. He really just fucking wants to stop hurting.

He _wants _Kendall.

Logan goes into the bathroom, the one attached to their – his – bedroom, the one he doesn't use anymore. Camille's hair brush sits on the sink, her toothbrush in the holder. He looks under the vanity and finds her makeup, the smell of her perfume wafting out the open cabinet doors.

Before he can stop himself, Logan gets a garbage bag, starts throwing things away, pieces, pieces of Camille, letting them go, letting _her _go. Because these things aren't her, were never her. He doesn't need this shit. He fucking _needs _Kendall.

It doesn't matter that the shit under the bathroom vanity isn't Camille; Logan is crying over it all the same. Her lipstick, her favorite toothpaste, her stupid hair accessories, all of it holds a memory. No, Logan reminds himself, that's not right. The memories are in him, not this shit. He's gasping for air, because it's like this tiny damn bathroom has preserved the scent of her, the warmth of her skin, the brightness of her smile. Logan is throwing away old bottles of shampoo covered in dust, body wash, razors.

It hurts, it aches, it's goddamn devastating, but he can still smell Kendall on his skin, so he trudges on until his bag is full and the bathroom is empty.

When he's done and come back to the reality of things, he wonders what the fuck he's doing because he really needs to be with Kendall right now. Logan has wallowed enough. It's time to worry about Kendall now.

Logan ties the bag, slings it over his shoulder because he has to take it out now before he loses the resolve. He'll drop it off on the way back to Kendall.

He doesn't make it far, because when he opens the front door, Kendall is sitting on the front steps. He turns around at the sound of the door opening, but doesn't get up.

"I'm sorry to be so fucking needy," Kendall says, "but I still need you."

"I need you too," Logan says.

"What happened?"

"Do you really want to hear this now, Ken, your dad—"

"What happened, Logan?"

Logan closes the door, sits next to Kendall, close but not touching. He sighs, takes a deep breath. "Camille wanted a baby," he starts, "but I put it off for years. When we finally decided to try, nothing came of it. She," Logan takes another breath. He doesn't say these things out loud, never, ever, "she went to the doctor to find out why, and that's when they found cancer. Ovarian, but it had spread and nothing could fix it."

Logan turns to look at Kendall as Kendall turns to look at him. "Logan, I love you," Kendall says.

"I watched her die," Logan says.

"I know," Kendall replies. "It's not your fault."

Logan believes it, for the first time.

"I thought I would die too," Logan says.

"My dad died," Kendall says.

"I know," Logan says. "I love you back. Is that okay?" Logan knows Kendall will understand the question means more. Logan isn't just asking if Kendall is okay with it.

"Yes," Kendall replies.

They finally touch, fingers weaving together, squeezing and giving comfort. Their lips inevitably meet, gentle, sweet and mending some of the scars marring their insides. It's enough so that Logan thinks he could be content forever with nothing but the long press of Kendall's mouth against his. He's warm everywhere now, the cold metal of his wedding band burning him with the frosty temperature.

Logan takes it off.

It's hard, but Logan goes to the funeral.

Kendall tells Logan to leave a picture of Camille on his wall, the one where she's not smiling with her mouth, but with her eyes.

~oOo~

"I'm leaving," Logan says.

"Oh?" the therapist says. "Where?"

"Seattle," Logan says, "they need someone to design some more skyscrapers."

"Wow, that's quite a different scene than L.A. What's prompted you to move?"

"There was an open chair on the Seattle Phil. Kendall got it," Logan replies.

"That's a big move to make."

Logan loses himself in his thoughts for a moment, the past with Camille, her lovely face as he lets loose the tight grip on her fingers, the future with Kendall, his arms open, waiting for Logan with a breathy laugh and roving hands.

"It is," Logan replies, "but at least I'm finally moving."


End file.
